


Duck and Cover

by idelthoughts



Series: Henry/Abigail Fics [3]
Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: 1950s, American Politics, Bigotry & Prejudice, Communism, F/M, Gen, Issue Fic, McCarthyism, Morgan family - Freeform, Paranoia, Period-Typical Racism, Red Scare, Social Commentary, The More Things Change...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: "Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party of the United States?"
With America on a witchhunt, Henry has to keep his head down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. 
> 
> Thank you to [bbcphile](archiveofourown.org/users/bbcphile) for the editing and research help. Much appreciated, as always.

**February, 1950**

Henry exhaled a warming breath onto the stethoscope bell as his patient took a seat on the exam bench.

“Thank you, Mr. Ellis. It’ll be a little cold—first patient of the day.” He grimaced in apology, then lifted Ellis’ shirt and set the diaphragm against his lower back. Ellis grunted and twitched at the touch of cold metal, and they both chuckled. “Deep breath,” Henry said.

Ellis obliged, and once Henry had satisfied himself that all was well, he continued the routine that had become mindless muscle memory after two years’ return to general practice. He stood back with a satisfied nod.

“Healthy as a man half your age. We’ll check your blood pressure, then you can be on your way.”

Ellis, balding and pushing sixty with a few extra inches added to his waistline in the past few years, scoffed at Henry’s flattery. He smiled nonetheless.

“That’ll keep going up until I retire,” Ellis joked as he rolled up his sleeve and offered his arm for Henry to wrap the cloth cuff around his arm. “And listen to the news. I tellya, Doc, this country is a mess.”

Henry made a non-committal noise, the type that allowed a patient room to talk without swaying the conversation either way; a useful tool for both bedside manners, and for blending in with the crowd. But, that required keeping his mouth shut, and that was a skill he was progressively losing over time. He preferred the camouflage of moving rather than that of staying silent; however, now that he had Abigail and Abe, he was re-learning to live in one place. Five years and counting in New York’s Lower East Side, something of a record in the last four decades of his long life.

“Communists in the White House. Can you believe it?”

“Pardon?” Henry paused before settling the stethoscope eartips into place and frowned at Ellis’ non-sequitur, having lost the thread of the conversation in his reverie.

“Two hundred and five card-carrying Commies in the government all this time, and no one the wiser.” Ellis tapped a finger on his thigh in sharp emphasis, winding up for what looked like a well-practiced rant. “‘Least we got a man who’s gonna clean things up. ‘Bout time we had a politician looking out for America, if you ask me.”

“I see.” Henry set about measuring Ellis’ blood pressure—higher than his last visit, though possibly due to the choleric indignation over current events. He pulled the stethoscope back down around his neck and took a step back. “Well, Mr. Ellis, a clean bill of health once more. I do hope _not_ to see you soon.” He smiled widely as he delivered the standard doctor’s jest, and Ellis chuckled as he rearranged his clothes and slid off the table.

“Take care, Doc. And don’t you worry, we got a guy on our side out there with the bigwigs.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Henry murmured as Ellis left the office.

He wiped the instruments down with alcohol, but the unease lingered for the rest of his clinic shift.

 

**March, 1950**

_“Five years after a world war has been won, men's hearts should anticipate a long peace, and men's minds should be free from the heavy weight that comes with war. But this is not such a period--for this is not a period of peace. This is a time of the "Cold War." This is a time when all the world is split into two vast, increasingly hostile armed camps--a time of great armaments race …”_

“This McCarthy fellow isn’t afraid to tell it like it is.”

The hospital breakroom radio crackled and popped, and Doctor Lidstone fiddled with the dial to fine-tune the station. The static cleared and the words continued to issue forth, loud and full of fervent passion.

Henry took a sip of coffee to cover his frown. Across the table, Abigail cast a glance his way. He minutely shook his head, and she looked down again and took a bite of her sandwich.

Lidstone’s declarations were as trite and worn-out as the rebroadcasted speech, but both echoed in the hospital break room far too often. Like many of the clinic staff, Lidstone hadn’t served in the War, excused for his needed medical service at home. It was easier to buy into the necessity of noble and righteous defense when one did not have to witness the consequences first hand.

The few staff who’d seen active service couldn’t fool themselves into thinking war was a game to be so easily played and won. However, the suggestion of a lurking enemy, old or new, crept into their minds and raised their hackles. Even Abigail wasn’t immune to the atmosphere, and it spawned many a late-night conversation over what world would greet Abe in the future. At least Henry could offer her the comfort that no matter what awaited, he would always be there to protect their son.

As for himself, Henry had lost track of how many times paranoia and propaganda had joined hands to turn people against each other. The creeping change in tone was as unsurprising as it was disheartening. Fatigue blanketed his outrage and smothered his optimism and joy, two precious gems he’d found alongside Abigail and Abe.

_“—lighted the spark which is resulting in a moral uprising and will end only when the whole sorry mess of twisted, warped thinkers are swept from the national scene so that we may have a new birth of national honesty and decency in government.”_

The program ended with an announcement from the newscaster, and the jingle for a laundry soap advertisement rang out in cheery contrast, followed by the popular music hour.

“Government’s one thing, but what’s to say that’s the only place these Communists are? Piles of people came over during the War, and we were all busy worrying about the fascists. How many Commies walked through the door when our heads were turned the other way? How would you feel if it was your kid’s teacher?” Lidstone waved a hand around the breakroom. “Your doctor? Your colleague?”

Henry set his coffee cup down on the table and took a breath, but Abigail gave him a warning look as she stood. She packed away the remains of her lunch and caught Lidstone’s attention with a bland smile.

“Have a good day, Doctor Lidstone. Henry, what would you say to a walk before we have to get back?”

Henry drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then stood.

“Sounds lovely, Darling. Excuse us, Doctor.”

Lidstone’s brow furrowed as he frowned in slight confusion at Henry’s tense formality, but nodded cordially to them both as they made their departure. Abigail and Henry fetched their coats in silence, and it wasn’t until Abigail caught his arm and tugged at him that he realized he was outpacing her, his stride spurred on by irritation. He patted her hand in apology.

“I’m sorry, Abigail. I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but he’s such an…” He stopped himself before he added the very ungentlemanly term queueing on his tongue. He ducked his head with a chuckle. “Well, yes.”

“He is an inexcusable blowhard, but we do have to see him every day. No point making it an uncomfortable situation.” Abigail tucked in close against his side to shelter from the chill early spring wind coming off the Hudson. “Besides, it’s just a lot of hot air.”

“It always is. At first.”

Abigail fell silent again, and then she tipped her head to rest it on his shoulder.

“I know.”

 

**June, 1950**

Henry held the department letter between his fingertips lightly, as though his distaste for the words made the paper they were printed on offensive.

“This oath is required by all physicians, nurses, and staff of the clinic, and is issued due to our association with the New York University School of Medicine,” he read aloud to Abigail, gesticulating as he paced the small kitchen apartment, “in compliance with the New York Education Law, Section 3002, which requires that any teacher, instructor or professor in any state school or institution in the public school system or in any school, college, university or other educational institution sign an oath pledging support for the federal and state constitutions.”

He tossed the paper down on the kitchen table, along with the sheet behind it asking him to swear his allegiance to the country, and declare his innocence of all ‘un-American affiliations and activities.’ Ominous, every word.

Abigail picked it up and scanned through it as Henry collapsed into the chair next to her, the red vinyl seat creaking beneath him.

“Do we have to sign it?” she said hesitantly, looking up at him, eyes wide.

“Legally? I don’t know. But, if we wish to continue our lives here without being under a microscope…” He rubbed his hands over his face, unspeakably weary. “Once a witch hunt is underway, people are satisfied with nothing less than a head on a pike. Doesn’t matter who, doesn’t matter if they’re deserving, only that their fears find answer in a scapegoat.” He eyed the paper again, pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I can’t have people start asking questions, Abigail.”

She set the letter down and was silent for a moment, then drew a breath and lifted her head up, back straight and jaw set firm.

“Not all hospitals have university affiliations. We’ve been discussing when it was time to move so that people wouldn’t notice that you’re not aging. It’s been five years, and Abe will start school next year. I think it’s time.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Henry leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “But if this so-called ‘Red Scare’ continues, we may have to consider leaving the country. That’s something you and I can do—but what about others who can’t? Where does it stop, Abigail? ”

Before Abigail could answer, Abe barrelled into the kitchen clutching a book and thrusting it at them. He climbed into Abigail’s lap to demand storytime, and her tinkling laugh at Abe’s antics drew a small smile from Henry.

For now, they would stay in New York. However, this country that had often served as sanctuary for him was fast becoming a closing noose around his neck.

 

**April, 1951**

“Duck, and cover! Duck, and cover!”

Abe’s singsong voice carried from the living room. Henry leaned back from his position at the sink over the soapy dinner dishes. Abe’s stockinged feet waved above the back of the couch, the rest of his upside-down body obscured.

“Abraham! Sit properly on the furniture!” Henry barked, his patience worn thin after the twelfth warning.

“Duck and cover!” Abe bellowed again in the same cadence. The feet disappeared, followed by a thump, and then the rattle of knick-knacks as a body rolled against the coffee table.

“Abe!” Henry shook suds off his hands and grabbed the dish towel as he strode into the living room. He stopped short when he found Abe curled up under the living room table in a ball, face to the ground and hands clasped behind his neck. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“Get down, Dad!” Abe’s hiss was muffled with his face crammed nearly into his knees.

Bemused, Henry crouched down next to the table, then dropped to hands and knees to peer beneath.

“And why are we down here?”

“The Bomb could drop at any time. You have to be ready.” Abe lifted his head and propped his chin on his hands, widening his eyes for dramatic effect. “Sometimes you get a siren, but sometimes you see a flash, and you have to get down and hide your skin, because the Bomb will burn it off.”

The earnest words were chilling in the mouth of his six year old son.

“And who told you this?”

“Bert the Turtle. They let us watch a cartoon in class! It was neat, Dad!”

Baffled, Henry sat back on his heels. Cartoons, doomsday turtles, and Atom Bomb safety drills. Henry had never felt more out of his depth.

He checked his pocket watch, but it was hours until Abigail would return from her evening shift. He got back down again on all fours and matched Abe’s position, nearly nose-to-nose with his son. He winked at Abe.

“Well, then, no time like the present to eat the rest of that chocolate cake, hm?”

Abe gasped in surprised delight. In his enthusiasm, he reared up and smacked his head and torso into the underside of the coffee table, rattling everything on top again.

“Chocolate cake!” he squealed, scurrying out from underneath the table and racing for the kitchen. “Last one there’s a rotten egg!”

Henry pried himself up from the ground at a slower pace—eternally youthful he might be, but a thirty-something body could never match the plasticity of childhood—and caught up to Abe, who was already rifling through the refrigerator, everything but cake forgotten. Henry could only hope that it would always be so easy to distract Abe from such real-world concerns. With each passing year, his ability to shelter him decreased.

He tried to put it from his own mind, and didn’t bring it up when Abigail came home exhausted after twelve hours working the emergency room. He kissed her and tucked her into bed just as he had done for Abe earlier, and read for a while in the silence of their home before he went to bed himself.

Sleep eluded him. In the middle of the night he put a hand to Abigail’s back to feel the rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

Once, he’d looked ahead at his interminable future and seen only monotony; sunrises and sunsets, births and deaths, day after plodding day, always the same. Now, the world was changing so fast he had no idea what each day would bring. He had more years behind him than anyone, and yet he was lost; vulnerable to the same insidious fear creeping in from all sides.

It was so easy to be afraid when he had so much to lose.

 

**January, 1952**

Henry learned to keep his head down and hold his tongue, and to keep his opinions to himself. It itched and wore at him every day as his discontent grew, but he was determined to hold onto this life they’d begun at least until Abe started high school. A normal life; it was all he wanted for Abe. They’d found a synagogue that welcomed their family, willing to help preserve Abe’s connection to his Jewish heritage while patiently instructing Henry and Abigail at the same time. Abe was happy here, and so was Abigail.

Henry was, too, when he could relax enough to enjoy it. In a country on high alert for the hidden enemy, any mistake could be the fatal blow to their house of cards. He watched his words in a way he hadn’t before, striving for normality—a state he’d left behind a century ago, at best, if he’d ever occupied it.

The Christmas holiday had been a rampant, passionate affair in the city, as red, white, and blue as it was gold and silver. The jingling of bells accompanied the choruses of “America the Beautiful,” sung alongside the Christmas carols like another religious hymn. It drowned out the whispers of genocide within their own borders, and cast a dazzling veil to obscure the accusations being read in Paris to the leaders of the United Nations.

_“We cannot forget Hitler’s demonstration that genocide at home can become wider massacre abroad, that domestic genocide develops into the larger genocide that is predatory war. The wrongs of which we complain are so much the expression of predatory American reaction and its government that civilization cannot ignore them nor risk their continuance without courting its own destruction.”_

Abroad, tongues were afire with the growing threat of America, but the most that was said of _We Charge Genocide_ in the American public forum was that these trumped-up, vicious exaggerations of African American oppression were yet another Communist conspiracy to “tear apart this great nation from within.”

The country had their scapegoat, and it would pay for every sin. _Not our fault; They did it._ The faceless They, the enemy always lurking, a generic bogeyman to fit the bill as needed.

On the first day of school after the holiday, Abe came home crestfallen; his homeroom teacher, Mr. Williams, had not returned. He’d given no notice, and a new teacher was in his place. Abe had dearly loved his teacher, and so Henry called on the school to inquire if there was a forwarding address to which they could send a card of thanks, and whether or not he was well.

The principal danced around an answer for an awkward few minutes, finally taking Henry aside away from any listening ears to tell him that Williams had been dismissed. Several families had voiced concerns that their children had been exhibiting ‘concerning attitudes.’ A more thorough investigation in Williams’ past turned up that he had been involved with a chapter of the Civil Rights Congress in his college years.

“It was ten years ago, which is why it did not turn up in his hiring process,” the principal told Henry quickly. “But we dealt with it as soon as we found out. I assure you, Doctor Morgan, we will not stand for Communist sympathizers working in our schools.”

“I see,” Henry said.

He saw all too well.

He managed to pry Williams’ mailing address from the disapproving principal anyway. Abe made him a card with a scrawled “We miss you, Mr. Williams,” and a stick-figured class of children’s tearful faces waving at him. Henry included a note offering to serve as a character reference, should Williams require it in a future job hunt.

A meagre, cowardly gesture, one that sat bitter on his silent tongue.

 

**October, 1953**

“And it’s English in America, not that Commie gibberish. You wanna talk like that, go back where you came from.”

The sudden venomous outburst cut through the hubbub of the crowd, and the noise dwindled down as heads swivelled in curiosity. At the far wall, a young man with an injured arm clutched to his chest scowled at a woman next to him holding a small child in her lap. The woman twisted away from him in her chair, putting as much of her back to him as she could. The little girl in her lap coughed; barking, rasping coughs, her legs going straight with the effort.

Henry wound the scene backward in his mind: the ongoing cough, the kicking legs—the little girl had likely kicked the man’s injured arm during a fit.

The girl squirmed and whined at being restrained and jostled the neighbouring chairs. The man glared, winding up for another bilious response while the woman shushed her child in a whispered tone, curling around her as though to protect her from a physical blow.

Henry excused himself from the nurse at his elbow trying to get his attention and push a patient file into his hands, and made his way across to the woman.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Morgan. I believe you’re next. Let’s see what we can do about that cough, shall we?” It went strictly against the clinic’s drop-in policy of first come, first serve, but he classified this as preventative medicine—best to nip the situation in the bud.

The woman looked up in surprise at the intervention, then darted a glance beside her to the sulking man who’d fallen silent upon Henry’s approach. She nodded and stood to precede Henry into the exam room, her step quick and light. The girl, black-haired with large eyes dark against sickly pale olive skin, stared at him with gravity over her mother’s shoulder as he followed behind.

“How long has she been sick? When did the cough start?” Henry asked as she sat on the exam bench.

“Five days. The fever was gone, then it came back today, and the cough is worse.”

She spoke fluently, her English tinged with a Brooklyn lilt. He hadn’t expected it; he’d pitched his questions slow and clear in the event of a communication gap, ready to switch another language as necessary. Henry adjusted his stethoscope, lifted the bell and gestured to her daughter, who still clung to her front with her face hidden in her mother’s neck.

“I’ll need to listen to her chest. She can stay where she is.”

The woman rubbed her daughter’s back and, after a cautious darting glance at Henry, whispered something quietly. The soft flow of Russian carried, and the little girl nodded and let her mother lift her shirt.

Her skin was fever warm, but not dangerously so, and the rattling wheeze was not to the point where he was worried. He went to fetch a thermometer and shook it out.

“Now, young lady. We’re going to check your temperature,” he said in Russian. The woman paused rubbing her daughter’s back, and the little girl peeked back at him. He smiled and held the thermometer up. “Just like a lollypop. In your mouth, under your tongue.” He made as though to bring it near, then pulled it back with a silly warning look, eyebrow raised. “But you mustn’t eat it.”

The little girl giggled and shifted in her mother’s lap, and obligingly opened her mouth when he put the thermometer in. He brought out his pocket watch to monitor the time. The woman resumed rubbing her daughter’s back. She stared at the floor with eyes unfocused.

“I travelled in Eastern Europe for a time. Studied Russian,” he said in English, hoping to break the uncomfortable silence and distract her from her worries. That time was nearly fifty years ago now, but the language had stuck. He was graced with a good ear, and had nearly a dozen languages under his belt. “A beautiful part of the world.”

She looked up at him, and smiled half-heartedly.

“Never been. My ma and pa came over when they were young. Spoke with me and my brothers at home. Thought I’d continue it with Elisa so she’d learn both, but…”

She didn’t need to finish the thought. The nasty response in the waiting room was only one form of the spreading hatred; some people did not limit themselves to words.

Henry pulled the thermometer from the little girl’s mouth and read it, briefly checked her throat and ears, then washed the thermometer and his hands in the sink.

“I suspect it’s viral. Acetaminophen for the fever, cough syrup, and lots of fluids. Have her rest as much as you can convince an active three year old to rest, and if the cough doesn’t clear up on its own in a week, or if it gets worse, come back in.” He scribbled a prescription on to his note pad as he spoke.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Henry paused in handing her the script, and couldn’t let it pass.

“I’m sorry for what happened. We don’t condone that kind of behaviour in the clinic. I’ll speak with our desk staff to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, gathering her daughter tight in her arms again and jogging her lightly. “It’s…” She sighed and pursed her lips, and then scoffed in frustration. “It’s almost funny, you know? My parents came here from Ukraine when the Soviets invaded. They came here to get _away_ from Communism. I’m no more a Communist than he is, and yet.” She shrugged and carded her fingers through her daughter’s hair, frowning as though chastising herself for saying anything. Then plucked the prescription from Henry’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor Morgan.”

“Yes, of course. You’re welcome. Call if you have any concerns,” Henry said. She had already turned away to hurry her daughter from the exam room.

Henry sat back on the bench. A cough and a fever he could address. Persecution because of who you were, of who people feared you might be? He still had no solution for that.

 

**December 1954**

_“Yesterday, the Senate voted 67 to 22 to condemn Joseph R. McCarthy, Republican Senator from Wisconsin. Every one of the forty-four Democrats present voted against Mr. McCarthy. The Republicans were evenly divided--twenty-two for condemnation and twenty-two against. The one independent, Senator Wayne Morse of Oregon, also voted against Mr. McCarthy—”_

A different hospital lunch room, different coworkers, and a different radio that continued to bleat the noonday news beneath the debate ongoing between Doctor Ghent and Sidney Parker, the hospital site manager.

“It was way past time,” Parker said, waving a dismissive hand. “He was out of control, chasing ghosts and tilting at windmills.”

“Come on, McCarthy’s no cartoon bad guy. I’ll admit, he made some mistakes, but that doesn’t mean he was wrong. He was doing a hard job that needed doing—that still needs doing. You can’t forget that.” Ghent huffed at Parker’s eye-roll, and turned to Henry and Abigail for validation.

“Every man thinks himself the hero of his own tale, even as he plays the villain in everyone else’s,” Henry said. Ghent made another offended noise, but Henry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Noel, I can’t agree with you.”

Ghent stood up from the table and gathered his lunch bag, shaking his head in a mockery of disappointment.

“Well, Comrades, I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna go earn that pay cheque I get for my hard work, and be grateful that at least some people are looking out for the welfare of this country.” He tipped them a sarcastic salute, gave them a dry smile, and walked off.

It had been the talk of the year; McCarthy’s slide into depraved, vicious insanity, and the public monster he’d created had turned upon its ringmaster. The bread and circuses overshadowed the fact that while the trials might be over, the witchhunt was not at an end. Only months before, the radio news program had read the latest proclamation from the rulers on high: _“I have today signed S. 3706, An Act to make illegal the Communist Party and to prohibit members of Communist organizations from serving in certain representative capacities...”_

The Christmas decorations and jaunty lights once more brought joy to the long New York winter nights, and as they walked home from the hospital, Henry held Abigail’s hand tight in his. He brought her gloved fingers to his lips and blew to warm them, and she giggled and stopped to pull him into a kiss. The world was always this; moments of bright happiness keeping his hopes buoyed. He’d be a fool to think it was so simple as to pretend this erased the rest, but it gave him a reason to keep moving forward.

They made it home, and as Abigail paid the babysitter and got Abe ready for bed, Henry sorted through the mail. Bills, advertisements, letters, the novel signposts of the regular life he was living.

He paused over a letter from an unfamiliar California address. He flipped over the envelope and opened it, unfolding a message written in a tidy hand.

“What is it, Darling?” Abigail came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled against his back.

“A letter from David Williams, Abe’s old teacher.”

“Oh!” Abigail shifted to his side and peered over his arm at it. “Is he well?”

“Yes, so it would seem. He’s teaching in San Francisco.” Henry folded the letter and turned to sling an arm around Abigail. “He wishes us a Merry Christmas, and says to give his love to Abraham and my lovely wife.”

She chuckled at his flirtatious tone, smiling against his lips as he kissed her. When he released her, she tutted.

“Mr. Williams is certainly a lot more fresh than I remembered.”

“Abigail!” Henry said with a laugh as she swatted him on the behind and left the kitchen to go finish putting Abe to bed.

When she’d gone, Henry flipped the letter open again, scanning to the last line after the signature.

_PS: Dr. Morgan, thank you for the offer of a reference. I didn’t take you up on it, as I was lucky enough to find a school who believed that my experience and character should speak for themselves. But, I appreciated it; it gave me hope. I needed the reminder that there are decent people out there. Thank you for that. -David_

Decency and hope; they were in short supply, but that made it all the more important to hold tight to them both.

Henry tucked the letter into the roll-top desk and fetched a book to read before bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Any inaccuracies and misinterpretations are all mine. If I've messed anything up, let me know—I'm no expert on this period of history, and so had to do a lot of reading and research. If you're interested in learning more about the events mentioned in the fic, here are the reference sites I used (and wow, I never thought I'd ever have a bibliography on a piece of fanfiction):
> 
> REFERENCE LINKS:
> 
> Anti-Communism in the 1950s, Wendy Wall  
> <https://www.gilderlehrman.org/history-by-era/fifties/essays/anti-communism-1950s>
> 
> Joseph McCarthy, wikipedia.org  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_McCarthy>
> 
> McCarthyism, U.S. History Online Textbook, ushistory.org  
> <http://www.ushistory.org/us/53a.asp>
> 
> Loyalty Oaths, U-S-History.com  
> <http://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1991.html>
> 
> Smith Act, wikipedia.org  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smith_Act>
> 
> The Cold War and the Domestic Arena, Dr. Gayle Olson-Raymer  
> <http://users.humboldt.edu/ogayle/hist111/ColdWarDomesticArena.html>
> 
> Duck and Cover, 1951 social guidance film produced by Archer Productions and US Federal Civil Defense Administration  
> <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C0K_LZDXp0I>
> 
> Duck and Cover (film), wikipedia.org  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duck_and_Cover_(film)>
> 
> The Communist Party USA and African Americans, wikipedia.org  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Communist_Party_USA_and_African_Americans>
> 
> We charge genocide : the historic petition to the United Nations for relief from a crime of the United States government against the Negro people / [Edited by William L. Patterson.], hathitrust.org  
> <https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015074197859;view=1up;seq=20>
> 
> We Charge Genocide, wikipedia.org  
> <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/We_Charge_Genocide>
> 
> Dwight D. Eisenhower: "Statement by the President Upon Signing the Communist Control Act of 1954.," August 24, 1954. Online by Gerhard Peters and John T. Woolley, The American Presidency Project.  
> <http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=9998>
> 
> On This Day, New York Times on the Web Learning Network  
> <http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/big/1202.html>
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: I fudged the release date on the Duck and Cover film by six months. I forgive myself for that historical inaccuracy.


End file.
